


Bubblegum Bitch

by Pimento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Cas, Protective Dean, Purgatory, Rescue Mission, hints of destiel - Freeform, pre season 12
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8405776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: A song prompt from http://loveitsallineed.tumblr.com/    “She sang to me Dean.”“Hm, who?  Who sang to you Cas?”“Meg.” He felt Dean tense under him.  “I heard her just now.”“Meg’s dead, Cas.  Sammy saw Crowley kill her, remember?”“She’s alive, and she sang to me.”“OK buddy, whatever you say.“Dean!”  The tone in his voice was harsh, impatient and he finally pulled away from the arm around his shoulder.“OK, Cas,”  Dean turned to look at him, green eyes flicking back and forth across his face, before settling and staring into his own.  “I'm listening.”





	

**Meg**

The ambush, although this was far too grandiose a title for the clumsy attempt on her life, was over practically before it began.  She clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth in irritation, spinning quickly and decapitating the non-descript looking creature with a sweep of one elegant arm.  Black inky life fluid oozed from the stump of the neck, as it dropped to its knees.  Head rolling away into the colourless undergrowth.  Leviathan.

All she wanted to do was reach the safety of the cave.  To escape this colourless world for a few precious hours.  Daylight here was so dilute and stark, it drained the life and vibrancy from everything, but the night was something else. It was terror made solid, as if the darkness was fear itself.

She shouldn’t be here, of course.  She should have ceased to exist when Crowley drove the angel blade deep into her meat suit, yet here she was, where the monsters played out their existence once they were removed from the human world.  Not only that, but the ‘meat suit’ had come, too.  She had tried instantly to smoke out, but somehow it was no longer something she wore.  The little nugget of a soul that she had possessed was gone, she was in here alone, and she was in here good and tight.  

She scanned her surroundings, it was a strange place with the look and texture of a wilderness, but stripped of creatures other than the monsters.  It was all just one long scrappy fight for survival.  The monsters did not tire, they did not thirst or hunger, but she did.  It was one of the things that hinted to her that she was no longer demon, she had recognised the sensations obviously from all the years possessing humans, but this was the first time she had ‘felt’ them.

There was nothing for several hundred yards.  No creature that would see or know where she went, but she still moved with careful efficiency, through trees, cracked bark stripping from the wood, ivy and creepers twining round and between them.  The pathway through the briars and gorse hidden by scrappy brush which sprang back into place leaving no trace of her presence behind, as she slid towards the cliff face and slipped into the darkness of the cave.  Her pupils blew as her eyes adjusted to the minimal light. Vaguely luminescent rocks gave off just enough of a glow to outline the curves and junctures.  Not that she needed to see, she could close her eyelids and still find her way sure footedly here.  

She smiled, the basic bowl she had made for herself from a curve of wood, patiently whittling and smoothing it into a more effective shape was exactly where she had left it.  She scooped it into the small trickle that ran down the cave wall into a small inky pool.  She drank, ate a handful of berries and reached back in the blackness.  Her fingers felt the softness of the fabric that she left rolled here in her safe place.  She pulled it around herself, snuggling into it and breathing in the smell of ozone and honey, humming softly and contentedly to herself.

She let her thoughts drift back, using the song as a lure, to pull her mind back to happier times. 

_ Candy bear, sweetie pie, wanna be adored… _

Half remembered lyrics from an afternoon like any other sitting facing each other on the bed. Her, relaxing back into two fluffed up pillows against the metal of the bedhead. Him, cross legged and comfortable towards the base.  Sunlight striping through the venetian blinds onto the crisp hospital sheets in his sunny little cell.  Gentle, elegant fingers absent mindedly stroking the curve of her ankle bone where her skin peeped between scrubs and sensible shoes, as she hummed and sang along to the radio.

_...hit me with your sweet love, steal me with a kiss... _

The scent on the soft brown fabric never seemed to diminish and she suspected that she was actually imagining it after all this time as it seemed impossible that it had lasted this long.  Either way, she did not care.  At peace, she settled back onto the reed pile she used as a makeshift bed and waited for a more gentle darkness to come. A darkness that would give way to memories and imagination, filling her mind with colours, including her favourite shade of blue.

 

**Dean**

He stared into the middle distance as his hands methodically folded his clothes.  He quite enjoyed doing laundry, there was something soothing about the normality of it.  The texture of different fabrics in his hands, the subtle fragrance from the detergent, and the repetitive nature of the task, all lending themselves to absent minded routine.

Things were calm.  Everyone was safe.  Sam was recuperating, despite Cas’ healing his physical wounds he needed time to heal mentally.  He had been tortured; he had not known what Lady Antonia had done to Cas; he had not known that his brother was not dead, admittedly not unusual for them to find that certain death was anything but; more significantly he had been rescued by his long dead mother.  

Dean had, with some relief, left Mary and Sam alone together.  His mother was a kick ass hunter, and he knew her a little, meeting her as a young woman, and remembering her as his mother, but they were all finding it hard to adjust.  She and Sam were strangers, bonds of love might be strong, but they weren’t based on knowledge of each other.  His brother was finding it tougher than he was.

Cas had taken their mother’s reappearance the best of all of them, becoming her confidant and friend with such ease, that Dean felt vaguely jealous. And all this despite her initially pulling a gun on him.   

Dean smiled at the memory.  He had closed gentle hands over the pistol removing it from Mary’s resisting hands.  Cas, still processing the fact that Mary Winchester was in the bunker, where he had been hoping to find Sam, had stared at Dean, alive and standing before him.  

In true Cas style, once he had recovered his composure from the overwhelming emotional response had waived away Mary’s stuttered apology, with a stunning smile, confiding clumsily, as only Cas could, “Dean both shot me and stabbed me with the demon blade when he first met me, despite the fact that I rescued him from hell.  Pulling a gun on me is positively friendly compared to that.”

For a few seconds, they had all stared at one another, Mary’s face frozen, her mouth a small shocked o, Dean’s eyes wide, Cas’ gaze flitting from one to the other, as uncertainty froze the smile in place, wondering whether he had yet again said something wholly inappropriate.  Then, Mary gave a strangely girlish giggle, and Dean, too, feeling the tension break, started to laugh.  

Cas relieved and bemused staring at them both.  As introductions go, it was at least memorable.

Now, after months of worry and searching, they were all safe.  In the bunker and safe.  Mary beating down the men of letters, Valkyrie like in her intensity, as she rescued her boys.  So yes, Dean was glad she was pre-occupied with Sammy.  His mother was downright terrifying.

He carried the pile of clean clothes into his room, and placed them on his bed ready to put them away.  Aware he was being watched from the doorway, he glanced up.  “Hey Sammy,”  he drawled comfortably.  “Where’s Mom?”

“Sleeping.”  His brother strolled into the room and perched on the bed, causing the pile of clothes to tip sideways.  “Dean…”

Oh, hell.  This was his ‘concerned and we need to talk’ tone.  He looked up and his brother was chewing his lip, eyes wide and earnest, he flicked them down focussing on the clothes as he piled them back up.  Oh, fuck.  A serious talk then, and probably one that Dean would not like.

“Have you talked to Cas lately?”  Sam blurted, taking a deep breath immediately afterward, and returning his downcast eyes to his brother’s face. 

“I talk to Cas every damned day, Sammy,”  he tried for casual innocence, but as ever it came off as defensive.

Sam sighed.  Dammit, Dean hated that sigh.  “I’m worried about him, Dean.  He’s been through so much and there’s something on his mind.”

Dean smiled.  How like Sam.  Shot, tortured, emotionally tested by the return of his long dead mother and  _ Cas _ has been through a lot.  “We’ve all been through a lot Sammy,” he said softly.  “Cas is coping.  We all are.”

That damned sigh again.  “He…”

Dean cut him short. “Cas wants to get Lucifer, Sam.  He feels responsible, because he let him out of the cage, but he put all that aside until we got you back safe.  He needs a few days to re-adjust his focus.  A slice of good ole’ fashioned revenge is what Cas wants… and needs.”

“You need to talk to him.”  Sam said, his jaw setting stubbornly.  Dean rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tension building in his shoulders, the hoped for peace and quiet while Sam and Mary occupied each other looking less and less likely.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to talk…”

“Dean!”  Sam’s eyes had taken on the imploring look of a kicked beagle.  “Please.”

“All right, all right.  I’ll go talk to him, but if he tells me to mind my own, I’m telling him you cheated and used your current state against me…”

 

 

 

**Cas**

Cas was in the library.  He had taken to spending most of his time in the bunker.  The state of being an orphan, an angel cast out from the hoard, replaced with his status as ‘brother,’ a Winchester, strangely cemented itself into the concept of ‘home’. And the Winchester’s home, their combined home,  _ his _ home was the bunker.  The parallels between his own father and John Winchester were not lost on Cas.  He felt closer to understanding Dean than ever before, and pining for something he might never have aside, they had never been closer.  Not that it made much difference to Cas, he would always do anything that Dean asked of him, whether that was dying or, harder than dying, living. 

That was definitely the hardest thing that Dean had ever asked him to do.  He had known, even as he offered, that Dean was not going to let him go with him to die.  He had known, that Dean wanted him to look after Sam. He had watched the sun brighten in the sky, warming their upturned faces, a cruel irony as the coldness settled heavily on his grace.  “Dean…” 

For Dean, he had followed Sam to Baby.  

For Dean, he had watched the younger Winchester for signs of distress.

For Dean, he had laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

For Dean, he had walked leadenly to the bunker.  

For Dean, he had tried to offer solace.

And then in a blinding flash he was banished.  The agony of failing in that one simple task, far worse than the searing burning sensation of being ripped out of the bunker by his grace..  “Look after Sam.  Stop him doing anything stupid.”  The anger had come then.  That woman, whoever she was, wherever she had taken Sam… he would find her, he would get Sam back and …  He had to get back to the bunker, before the trail ran cold.  Maybe Sam had defeated her and would be waiting for him… instead he stared down the barrel of a pistol, held unwavering and steady.  

Obviously, it was not the gun that held him frozen in place, bullets would not harm him, it was the woman wielding it, a woman who couldn’t possibly be there.  Mary Winchester,  and then, he was there.  Alive.  And the icy clutch around his heart dissolved, the relief flooding him like pure gold, a brief flash of overwhelming joy, crashing with the grief like a surging tide hitting a cliff.  The wooden floor of the bunker under his hands and knees as his legs gave way and he crashed down, only dimly aware of the arms that grabbed his shoulders and pulled onto his back and cradled him.  This was not the right way round.  “Sam...I lost him...I’m sorry...I failed you...I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” Emotions, too much, too many, the levee broke and he sobbed uncontrollably, emotionally drained with the extremes of grief and relief, trying desperately to pull himself back enough to tell Dean everything he could.

And Mary, he could feel the confusion and fear, see her soul twisting with anxiety.  She was so strong, so determined, so Deanlike.  Once they were all sat quietly, taking stock, she began stuttering her apologies.  Cas would give anything to ease her discomfort.  He was pleased when she laughed.  Grateful since then for her growing trust and their developing friendship.  Sam their combined priority.  

Now, Sam was safe.  Back home where he belonged, and Cas could concentrate on his own burning need to put Lucifer back in his box.  He was, thus, lost in thoughts of revenge, planning and plotting his next move, and did not even hear Dean enter the library.  He jumped as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and Dean’s concerned face swam into focus.

“...Are you OK, Cas?  I asked you whether you needed anything...”

“Yes, erm… no I don’t need anything. I’m sorry, Dean. I was deep in thought.”

“I noticed.”  Dean said a little dryly.  He pulled a chair round and dropped himself on it.  Sitting back to front, long legs either side of the back, arms folded across the top of it. “So, what’s our next move?”

“Our next move?” Cas asked, stupidly.

“Lucifer, right.  We’re going after Lucifer now.  Sammy’s safe.  Lucifer, remember him.  The devil.”  Dean’s concerned face was matched by the worry in his voice now.  Maybe Sam was not so far off the mark.

His heart gave a little surge.  Dean was here and warm and safe.  He had his brother back.  His mother, despite her insistence that she was no cook, had made them some strange tomatoey soup.  All was well with Dean.  He would not drag him into this fight, unless he had to.  “I am going to interrogate some of his associates and more loyal followers and then I will need to track down Rowena.”

“Crowley?  He’s gotta be gunning for him too.”

Cas nodded slowly.  It had already occurred to him that he might have to form an alliance with the former King of Hell.

“So,”  Dean said, “Let’s get ourselves somewhere nice and quiet and call ourselves a demon.”

“You should stay here with your family, Dean.  They need you.”   A strange look flickered through the soft green eyes, and Cas jumped as his grace twisted in reaction.

“Yes,”  Dean said so softly, that Cas wasn’t sure whether he heard it with his ears or his mind.  “ _My family_ does need me, which is why I’m going with him to talk to Crowley.”

Sam had given Dean a brief look of smug satisfaction when he had announced where he and Cas were going.  Mary had shaken her head.  “You are going to summon a demon, to help you.”

“No, Mary,”  Cas said gently.  “We’re going to call the former King of Hell on a cell phone.”

She glanced at him with a rueful smile.  Suddenly, it became clear to Dean why she and Cas had got along so well, so quickly.  They were both finding their way in a world they didn’t really understand.   They were dealing with the same shit, by virtue of their relationship to the Winchesters.

 

 

**Crowley**

The image of the elder Winchester flashed on screen of his cell, the title ‘Not Moose’ was a sour joke now.  Crowley was mid negotiation with a couple of mid-level demons, who twelve months ago would have been quaking with fear at the mere mention of his name.  Funnily enough seeing him collared and forced to lick the floor, they were considerably less afraid.  But neither of them was going to underestimate Crowley.  He was always dangerous, he had faced down the darkness, and Lucifer aside, was the most powerful force on this side of the fence and when it came down to it… Lucifer had lost too him already...twice. 

Crowley excused himself with a dismissive gesture of his hand.  These two, whilst not loyal, would at least tow the line.  The balance was tipping subtly in his favour, and Lucifer was no longer in control of hell.

“Squirrel,” he said, with a joviality he didn’t feel, “missing me already?”  He smirked at the rudeness of the response he provoked, and stepped neatly from Hell’s throne room, still holding the phone to his ear, into the abandoned bar where Dean sat on a worn and battered banquette, the trenchcoated figure of Castiel stood at his side.

“Ah,”  he said hanging up his phone with a click.  “Lovely, you came with an accessory.”

Cas glowered at Crowley, with unconcealed dislike.  Taking a menacing step forward, stilled only by the gentle touch of Winchester’s hand on his arm.  Crowley chuckled.  “Stand down, Castiel, there’s a good boy.”

With a flick of his coat, and mustering his dignity, Cas sat down next to Dean, his eyes narrowed.  Ah, Crowley thought to himself, let the games begin.

 

 

**Meg**

The dreams were fresh in her mind when she opened her eyes.  It was still night.  She could tell this by the way the shadows fell around the bend in the corner, where it twisted towards the entrance.  Once the meagre daylight came, the nature of the shadow was different.  Not really much brighter, but different.  She wiped her damp cheeks on her sleeve.  The first time she had found this cave, and come across the little stash of belongings, one of Dean’s knives and the crumpled, folded trenchcoat,  she had found herself hugging it before conscious thought intervened.  And then she was crying, so overwhelmed by the strangeness of the sensation that it had shocked her into stopping.  Now when she felt the need she let the tears fall.  It was better afterwards, the sting of salt in her nose was strangely comforting.  She pushed her face into the softness of his coat, and imagining him in it, solid and steady, she began to tell her unicorn all over again about the confusion of finding yourself human.  Singing softly to draw back the happy memories…

_Hit me with your sweet love, steal me with a kiss._

_I’m Miss Sugar Pink, liquor, liquor lips_

_I’m gonna be your bubblegum bitch_

 

 

**Dean**

It had gone well.  Considering.  Crowley had even foregone his usual insistence on a contract.  But then he was as desperate as they were.  Rowena had gone to ground, but Crowley was confident he knew how to reach her, and of her co-operation.  Funnily enough having your neck broken, tends to make an enemy for life.  And Rowena was good at taking down her enemies.  The uneasy alliance forged against the darkness would continue, until no longer mutually beneficial.  

They were just climbing back into the Impala when Cas suddenly winced.  Slumping into the passenger seat, clutching his head.  “Cas?  Buddy can you hear me?  Cas?”

 

 

**Cas**

The pain was sudden and intense.  His whole head thrummed with over sensitivity and the teeth in his jaw resonated.  He screwed his eyes shut, and tried to turn down the reception of his mind.  He vaguely heard Dean’s voice, but it was lost, drowned in the sound of humming.  He ached with an echo of longing, and loneliness.  Feeling hunger and cold, the way he had on a cold winter night huddled wet and dishevelled beside a dumpster on a dark street.  The night he met April, when he was human and frightened and alone.  The console of the Impala swam away into blackness and he smelled fear and darkness, dragging him to another place he had thought was just memory now.

He opened his eyes slowly, expecting to see a diluted, colourless world, and blinked back his confusion at Dean’s face looming over him, a little relief mingling with the concern in his face, as Cas muttered, “I’m OK.”  Gentle hands were cradling him, he pushed himself upright in confusion, but did not attempt to pull away from the embrace.  It was a habit he had no wish to break.

The hand on his face dropped away, but the arm round his shoulder stayed firm, pulling him gently closer, until he was slumped against Dean’s side.  Eyes still swimming, he closed them against the sensation and leant into the comforting warmth.  His nose filled with the combination of the cars leather interior and Dean’s familiar smell.  He relaxed, and then spoke.  Suddenly aware of what had just happened.

“She sang to me Dean.”

“Hm, who?  Who sang to you Cas?”

“Meg.” He felt Dean tense under him.  “I heard her just now.”

“Meg’s dead, Cas.  Sammy saw Crowley kill her, remember?”

“She’s alive, and she sang to me.”

“OK buddy, whatever you say.  

“Dean!”  The tone in his voice was harsh, impatient and he finally pulled away from the arm around his shoulder.  

“OK, Cas,”  Dean turned to look at him, green eyes flicking back and forth across his face, before settling and staring into his own.  “I'm listening.”


End file.
